These days seems so long, as if meant for lulling around on the green, sun soaked grounds, with the blue, blue skies above, and the song of the birds mingled with the murmur of trees. But instead they are filled with nothingness of another kind, as our minds, longing to play with Spring, are forced to bend to very different tasks. And there we find ourselves drooping over Dryden’s Absalom and Achitophel, or a chapter of philosophy concerning the moral argument; or, in order to rouse ourselves from unintended slumber, we throw ourselves whole heartedly into baking muffins. Two dozen, wrapped in tin foil, and tossed into the freezer like coal into the the coal bin to be used on another day.
The ‘B’ post is almost done, but I’m waiting for a card reader so I can get pictures off my camera. It should be here by Thursday. I’m busy trying to hem my dress for the ball next Saturday, while trying not to fall behind on my studies. And during it all I find myself dreaming of May, weeks spent with my sister, and imaginary vacations to mountain tops. Perhaps listening to “North and South,” and Mrs. Gaskell’s descriptions of a country life is not the smartest thing to do in this situation, but I have put The count of monte Cristo on the back burner for now, and, having ruled Hulu out, am forced to fall back on English novels. Besides, I’ve never read it before, and I hear the movie is very good. As to this ailment, I know it’s cause. It does not spring from beautiful but chilly days, no, it’s a natural outcome of the sun crossing the equator. That’s right, Happy Vernal Equinox day.
